Holding my gaze, he leans forward and nuzzles my slit with his nose. He doesn’t look at the exposed patch between my legs, even if his fingers are caressing the insides of my thighs lightly, working their way closer to my sex.
His voice is scruff, like the stubble on his jaw. “I want to taste you.”
I only manage a small shake of my head. No man has ever put his tongue there.
“Lina.” He takes a ragged breath. “Let me eat you out.”
“I don’t want you to,” I whisper.
What if I come? His touch does sinful things to me, things I never thought I’d be able to feel at the hands of a man. What will his tongue do? I hated Jack’s hands on my body, but he never probed and prodded and pushed, exploring my tipping points to elicit my pleasure. My late husband never touched me with his mouth, and he never used his hands to hold me down. He didn’t need to, because he had my permission. I traded it for food. My nudity didn’t invite his lustful look. My pain did. This look, the one Damian gets in his eyes as he lightly rubs his chin over my sex, Jack only got when he carved his victory notch into my arm. One line for every time I sold my body. One line for every time I allowed him to fuck me in exchange for a meal.
“Lina.” Damian’s breath feathers over my clit, pulling me back to him. “Let me fuck you with my tongue. I promise you’ll like it.”
I’m scared of this man and the black magic of lust he uses on me. Lust is cruel. Lust is selfish. Lust chews away your defenses.
At my silent denial, he sits back on his heels. I’m about to let out a breath of relieve when he takes my hand from the armrest and places it on my sex.
“Touch yourself,” he rasps. “For me.”
“Damian.”
It’s a protest and a plea, even if I know it won’t help. He may not put his hands or lips on me, but he won’t settle for nothing.
Cupping my hand, he manipulates my fingers, rubbing them in circles. The friction touches a nerve of pleasure. My hips arch involuntarily.
“Slowly,” he says. “Make it last.”
I tense when he straightens to sweep his hands over my shoulders and down my back, but it’s only to brush back my hair. The touch is so gentle, I forget what I’m supposed to be doing. My hand slips from my pussy to my thigh where it lays tentatively. I have a sudden urge to touch him, to feel the hard muscles of his abdomen, but he grips my hand and pushes it back between my legs while he towers over me, watching.
I’m used to the watching, but this is different. It’s not my pain getting him off. It’s my pleasure. As much as I try to remain immune to it, the pleasure starts building in my core. It spreads through my lower body in a languid fire, heating my clit and swelling my folds.
“Put your fingers inside and show me how wet you are.”
My gaze snaps to his.
“Two fingers.”
The instruction leaves no room for argument. There is a choice, though. My fingers or an object of his choosing. That’s how his game works.
Slowly, as he demanded, I sink a fore and middle finger into my center. I’m slick and hot, signs of arousal that should shame me, but physical sensations override the guilt of my logical mind, hardening my nipples and pulling my abdominal muscles tight under his observation. The pads of my fingers rub over a sensitive spot. I can’t stop myself from stroking deeper.
Gripping my wrist, he stills my movement. “Show me.”
I’m so wet it makes an embarrassing noise when he pulls my fingers free.
His cheeks turn dark and his eyes wild as he inspects my glistening fingers. “You’re even more beautiful when you’re horny.” Satisfaction mars his features. He puts my hand back in place, his middle finger lying on top of mine. Applying steady pressure, he makes me take my finger. “Show me how you come.”
He sets the pace, pumping until my channel clenches, and then he pushes another one of my digits inside. “Don’t hold back. Ride your fingers.”
The friction is delicious, but it’s not enough. As if reading my body, he pulls my wrist forward, changing the angle of penetration. The new position gives him access to my clit. The pad of his thumb presses down gently, massaging in a slow circle.
“Like this?” he asks huskily.
Yes, oh, my God, yes. My pleasure gathers from somewhere deep in my core, consuming me with a slow burn rather than devastating me with an immediate explosion. He watches my eyes as I rise gently for him, at long last reaching the crescendo he wants. My hips rock and my globes lock. It’s the sweetest of agonies, helplessly coming undone with his body keeping my legs apart and his gaze bearing down on me. It’s only when the aftershocks dissipate that I realize he’s still rubbing my clit with lazy circles, and something other than lust shines in the possessive depths of his chocolate colored eyes. Victory.